Delivering Angel
by molescout
Summary: Sherlolly smut piece. What happens when the world's greatest (and only) consulting detective finds himself within his pathologist's flat after she's brought him back from the dead? An apocalypse of sorts. Post Reichenbach Fall. Now multi chapter.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is my first foray into the "Sherlock" fandom. I just watched the entire series on a rather long flight from LA to Tokyo and I instantly fell in love. I have a thing for this sort of character and smut so this is my rather poor attempt at a bit of Sherlock/Molly sexy time while trying to keep it fitting with their characters and circumstances. Like to listen to music as you read? Here's my suggestion for this one: "Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons. Since it would basically take an apocalypse for Sherlock to actually do anything like this.

**Delivering Angel**

Breathless, fatigued and running entirely on adrenaline, Molly acted as a third leg to one 'deceased' consulting detective as they made their way up the stairs to her third floor flat.

The day had been exhausting, both emotionally and physically. She'd never been so terrified in her life. She'd never once even entertained the idea of pulling someone out of a chemical induced coma-like death and if she had, a morgue would not have been her first choice of locations in which to do it. Her normal workspace was woefully poor in the life-resuscitating instrument department and locating the drugs and equipment necessary had been far more than just nerve wracking as Sherlock literally lie dying on one of her tables as she scrambled about, trying her best not to have a nervous breakdown in the process.

This wasn't a game; he really could have died. There were no guaranties that he would come out of it and not suddenly fit right in with the rest of her regular patients. He would still have trauma from his fall, despite the nerve deadening, muscle relaxing cocktail of drugs they'd agreed upon using. She'd only given him a twenty percent chance of even surviving the fall despite his vehement assurances that he'd be just like a cat surviving better from a ten story fall than a three story one.

Of course she dropped her keys as she tried to juggle both the man leaning heavily on her shoulder and the blasted little metal dangilies that are supposed to grant her easy access to her flat. Amazingly, she managed to get them lodged against the wall, drug up by the toe of her shoe and back into her hands before she finally got them into the lock, disabling it and allowing them inside her rather small living room.

"Exactly as I imagined." She heard him say quietly as he managed to push himself against her now shut door, surprisingly under his own steam. The entire drive here in the cab, he'd been slowly coming further back into the land of the living and with each step forward, Molly found herself less and less worried that he might have survived without brain damage despite his extended time as a dead man. She found the idea of a mentally impaired Sherlock far worse than a dead one. As absolutely horrid as that sounded in her head, it was the truth.

"Can you… stay there without…" Why was she still acting like a silly schoolgirl? She'd just broken how many laws? Lied about how many things? Grossly misused her position at Barts in order to help him fake his death and still she couldn't form a coherent sentence to save her own metaphorical life.

Ridiculous.

"I'll manage," the slightly slurred baritone of her new houseguest assured her from his position against her door.

"Right," she breathed out as she set about to fetch him some water, knowing that his system had to be severely dehydrated. It simply wouldn't do to have him expire on her now after all the effort she'd gone through to make him not dead… dead… oh bugger it. He needed water.

"Here." She offered, holding the cup to his lips and letting him drink deeply, some of it escaping his lips and dribbling down his chin. "Oh no, here… let me…" and she set the glass down on the small table she used to set her keys on each day. Then, reaching up, she wiped away the excess water, focusing unnecessarily on his lips, his lips that seemed like some renascence master had sculpted them. She continued to run her thumb over his lower lip even after all traces of water had been removed. Realizing how foolish she was being, she started to pull away in abject mortification but the moment her fingers began to depart, she suddenly found her wrist in his firm grip, one she was surprised he could manage in his post fall, post drugged state.

She looked up into his eyes, terrified of what she was going to see there. She'd seen too many of his less than pleasant stares over the years, from derision to scorn, and she didn't know if she could handle any of them right then. She'd been through far too much. When she mustered the courage to meet his gaze, she didn't find what she expected see. Instead she found that he was just looking at her like she was some sort of delivering angel.

Really, truly looking at her as though she was the only other living creature on the face of the planet. And maybe for him, she was. He was supposed to be dead after all.

"I…" That's all she got out before his other hand lodged in her hair at the nape of her neck, holding her firmly as his lips clumsily crashed upon hers.

How many times had she fantasized about this, dreamed of this, only to wake to a world where he would never actually do this? She'd lost count over the years, always thinking that maybe at the end of the world she'd have a chance. This was it, the apocalypse. It had actually occurred, at least within the microcosm that was her flat.

She knew as soon as it began that she should push him away, put a stop to this. Neither of them were in the right state of mind, both exhausted, both terrified but it seemed that all those circumstances were exactly what made her mentally say, '_fuck it_'.

She didn't flinch when his tongue pushed its way into her mouth before leaving quickly, only to plant itself oddly on her cheek before his teeth lodged firmly on her neck, biting down and causing her to wince slightly at the roughness of it.

Suddenly, he was leaning heavily on her once more but this time, instead of his hands resting innocently on her shoulders for support, they were planted, one in her hair and the other gripping the back of her neck. As his weight started to rest on her heavily, she couldn't help but stagger back. She wasn't built for holding up someone of his stature under normal circumstances and the fact that she her knees already felt weak wasn't making matters any easier.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, her old chesterfield was situated in very close proximity to the door this had all started against. The moment her calves touched it, her legs buckled, sending them toppling to its worn surface, accepting them with a quiet groan of old leather.

The hand in her hair quickly abandoned its post and slunk down her body, clutching at her shoulder, then gripping one of her once proclaimed too-small-breasts before sliding down to the edge of her pleated kakis.

Her hands, on the other hand, were busy discovering just exactly what the naked flesh of his chest felt like. Once the top few buttons were quickly dispatched, she slid her hands in to feel the almost cool skin of his seemingly hairless upper torso. '_Did he shave it?' _she thought idly as she indulged in one of the many fantasies she'd had concerning this exact action so many times before. It lived up to her expectations spectacularly. However, his attempts at loosening the buttons on her slacks did not. He fumbled about for so long that she finally heard a strangled sounding curse under his breath. It was then that she took it upon herself to reach down and take care of that with which he'd been struggling.

The button popped, the zip was pulled down and she found herself pushing the now overly scratchy material down her thighs, going so far as to get one of her legs fully out of a pant leg. She was just about to set about getting the second free of the garment when she suddenly noticed that while she'd been doing that, he'd been successfully unfastening the bindings of his own trousers.

She couldn't help but gasp as she felt the hard heat of him against her thigh. If this had been any other time, any other circumstance or any other man, she would have quickly realized that everything about this encounter was moving far too quickly. She would have maybe pleaded with the man above her that they needed to slow down. If it had been any of her past four or five attempts at a romantic relationship, she would have protested as they roughly pried her legs apart. She might have put the brakes to the man grasping hold of himself and trying to press himself within her only minutes after stumbling inside the threshold of her home for the first time. As it were, this wasn't any man, this was Sherlock Holmes, the man she had been completely smitten with for the past three years and this wasn't any old situation like an after dinner night cap. This was a post 'suicide' frenzy the likes of which had never once entered her mental fantasies even on her most creative days after seeing what he could do with a riding crop.

After one too many times of his inept attempts of penetration traveling a bit too far south, Molly Hooper, Bart's youngest pathologist, took it upon herself to grasp the… _erection_ of Sherlock Holmes and guide him to the place he oughtn't be if she'd been thinking straight. Since she wasn't, she found it the most glorious thing she'd ever known as he slid within her. The second most glorious event of the night was the unadulterated moan she hear emanating from the man above her as he bottomed out within her.

It had been too long since her last sexual encounter for his first rushed penetration to be anything but nearly painful and that was probably why she cried out as loudly as she did as he set a fast, almost blundering pace.

The hand she'd batted out of the way, in order to set in motion his current thrustings, now rested tightly on her naked hip, gripping her powerfully enough to make her grit her teeth. Under any other circumstances, it would have been irritating but she was too lost in the moment to even acknowledge it as anything other than erotically essential.

Her hands gripped desperately at his upper arms as she just tried to hold on and keep herself somewhat grounded as he grunted above her, his panting breath hot against her neck.

The sudden and unexpected coupling of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper burned as intensely as any bright flame and subsequently burned itself out just a quickly. With a rather loud utterance of her name that she wasn't likely to ever forget, he shuddered against her, his already erratic thrusts only growing more so right before he pressed fully to her before ceasing all together.

They both just lay there, panting and sweaty. Despite the fact that he was still hard and firmly embedded inside of her, she could feel his ejaculate start to escape her filled cavity and drip down the crack of her buttocks. It was that feeling that finally forced her to out of the highly erotic situation and moved her forcefully into the inevitable awkwardness in which that they now found themselves.

"I…" she started with the same syllable that this had begun with but this time she got a little further verbally…somewhat, "should use the loo." She then unceremoniously extracted herself from beneath him, earning both of them odd little groans as he slipped from within her. With a hand between her thighs and a pair of trousers and knickers trailing from one leg, she made her way to her restroom as quickly as she could.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." She chanted as she stripped out of her clothes and jumped into the shower for the quickest spray she'd ever taken. Just two minutes later, she pulled the same clothes back on her damp body and took a deep breath before exiting. She found him, pants back as they should be, passed out on her sofa. Running a hand through her damp hair, she considered her options before deciding that leaving him to sleep as-is was probably best for several very good reasons. She grabbed a throw and settled it around her sleeping guest.

She then retreated to her own room, throwing herself onto her bed and only going so far as to clutch one of her pillows before falling asleep herself. She could deal with the consequences of today, tomorrow.

XxXxX

AN: There you have it, a bit of post 'fall' Sherlolly smut. I only watched the series once on a plane flight and have only read a few associated fics (and I'm American) so please forgive any glaring inconsistencies to either her or his characters (and anything else British). Feel free to tell me what you think, good or bad; I love any and all commentary on my silly writing. Fans of my Loki writings, sorry but watching this show just forced my typing fingers into it, as well as a night drinking with clients (thank you expense account for making that not a complete disaster).


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Wow, I had no idea that my smutty one shot would get so a huge response in reviews and strangely enough, PMs. So I thought that maybe this could get turned into a multi-chapter fic? We'll see. Originally I wasn't going to because doing a Sherlock POV pretty much scared the crap out of me. So here's my go at it. Hope you enjoy it.

**Thank you, Molly Hooper**

He groaned. By God he felt awful. In fact, he was fairly certain that the last time he felt anywhere near this horrific was the day after he decided to get clean. The withdrawal had been so intense back then that he'd hardly been able to think straight, let alone solve cases. It had been the lowest point of his life and one he wasn't fond of recalling, ever.

He opened his eyes and tried to get his bearings, confused for a moment when the scene the met his eyes was not that of 221b Baker Street, bright and cheery instead of dark and brooding. Confusion filled him for half a second before everything came rushing back. Moriarty, Bart's roof, talking to John on the phone and then falling…

He squeezed his eyes shut again and sucked in a deep breath as a wave of nausea hit him. He tried to refocus his mind away from his treacherous body's reaction by going over the previous day. He recalled fully realizing Moriarty's final move in the game only to find that the genius criminal had successfully moved him into a checkmate. He'd needed help; he couldn't do it alone and Molly Hooper had been the only one that could be counted on to be that help that he so desperately required. His mousy little pathologist hadn't even batted an eye when she'd said yes despite how he'd seen her pupils constrict, her face pale and her breathing increase. She'd been scared, terrified if he was correct and he tended to be.

He'd then met Moriarty on the roof and for a short time, he thought he'd beat him at the game until the insane man put a gun in his own mouth and pulled the trigger forcing Sherlock's hand. So he jumped.

He jumped to keep Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John, his three… friends, from an assassin's bullet. He barely even remembered waking in Molly's morgue; the only clear memory was of the sound of the zip on his body bag being fully removed once she'd resuscitated him. He did not remember the rest of his time at Barts but that didn't mean he didn't know how they'd left. He'd given her detailed instructions for how to best to extract him after making the switch with a second body that she quickly scheduled for the incinerators. It seemed to have worked. The lack of police knocking down the door meant that both he and Molly had pulled off the illusion of the century.

He somewhat remembered the ride here and getting up the stairs. She'd dropped her keys but managed to get them inside without any other frustrations. Then she'd gotten him water and…

He sat up immediately, his hands shot to his face, running a path from his jaw and up through his hair as the realization of what had occurred hit him. He regretted the move (the sitting and the fornication) and fell back when it felt as though he might actually pass out.

It had been him; he'd instigated it. Of course she hadn't stopped him, not with the infatuation she'd been harboring for who knows how long. He'd only learned of it due to his regrettably dreadful behavior over Christmas.

But why had he done it? He took another deep breath, wishing he had some water, something, anything, to help alleviate the terrible scratching dryness of his throat. He opened his eyes again to see if he thought he could make it to her kitchen on his own for water without heaving or passing out. When he glanced towards it, relief washed over him as he saw a full glass sitting in the center of her coffee table, along with several pills and a plate full of crackers. Slowly this time, he sat up and reached for the glass, swiping up the pills in the same move. A note lay under the plate and he read it after gulping down most of the water.

_Take these and try to eat some of the saltines. Do not move about too much. Despite no broken bones, you'll have some deep contusions._

She'd gone into work and Sherlock found himself quite relieved by that. He didn't particularly feel like dealing with the ramifications of their actions from the night before.

"Why?" he moaned aloud.

It had to have been the drugs or the adrenaline of the fall and the stress… Perhaps it was something like the battle lust countless soldiers had experienced over the centuries, the desire for some other sort of physical or _emotional_ outlet after a near death experience. A life affirming action of sorts. But he was Sherlock Holmes and he was not supposed to fall prey to what _normal_ people experienced no matter how extreme the circumstances.

He wasn't supposed to but it seemed as though he had.

He should delete it. Yes, that's exactly what he should do. Nothing good could come from keeping such unimportant information. He had far greater things to worry about, like Moriarty's network and taking it down, proving his innocence and ensuring that his friends would remain safe. All of those were far more important than dwelling on the fact that he'd had his first outright sexual encounter with the pathologist that had saved his life. But in order to delete it, he was going to have to go over every detail and remove it. He didn't really feel up to that challenge at the moment. It could wait. Besides, Molly would eventually return and he doubted that she'd willingly say nothing of it and pretend as though it never occurred.

After drinking the rest of the water, he lay back down and tried to rest. He felt as though he hadn't slept in weeks despite having slept through the night and most of the day. He closed his eyes, throwing his arm over his eyes to block out the light. Unfortunately, resting seemed as though it wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. His mind kept racing furiously over all the details of the past few days, plans began to form and every once in a while, thoughts of what he had done with Molly would leak into his mind.

His frustration mounted each time it did. He huffed and turned himself onto his side, curling up on himself, his back to the rest of the room and his face sequestered in the cushion of the couch.

"It's only sex. A base, physical thing. Nothing of note." He muttered aloud.

And it really was only sex. It should not be affecting him like it was. Maybe he _should_ delete it now and be done with it. Even as he threatened the memory, he knew it was empty, only further frustrating himself. It had felt better than he'd imagined, better than the self-stimulation he occasionally gave into when he found it absolutely necessary but it wasn't earth shattering. He'd had highs on cocaine that he recalled being far superior though comparing the two might have been unfair. He only took coke when on a case, so the two highs, the chemical and the mental, were combined. Also, he'd been somewhat out of it as he'd rutted her like some animal, likely not allowing for the full sensory experience of coming while inside of her.

He groaned again, both from the way his body was now reacting to his analysis of the memories but also from the realization that such a thing could very well potentially lead to offspring. He had no desire to be a father. The thought actually set off another round of nausea.

It was at that moment, that the door to Molly's flat decided to open and its owner entered quietly. He didn't move. If she thought he was asleep, she would not ask questions. If she didn't ask questions, he wouldn't have to answer them. Yes, brilliant.

He heard her kick off her flats and tiptoe over to him, standing still for a fair bit of time, making him wonder if she knew whether or not he was actually sleeping. The quiet sigh she let out didn't do anything to tell him one way or another. He then listened as she made her way to the kitchen with her sack of groceries. Next came the sound of her putting a kettle on the stove.

"We don't have to talk about it."

He mentally cursed himself while simultaneously repressing the instant quip that formed in his mind about how saying you don't need to talk about something is, in actuality, talking about it. He held it back; knowing that such a thing probably wasn't appropriate at the moment. John would be proud of him. Instead, he rolled over and gingerly sat up. She spoke again.

"It shouldn't have happened, it was a mistake."

Though he agreed, he found that her words stung slightly.

"I mean, yesterday was a bit insane and I guess that sort of thing happens. It's not like it meant anything to you… or me," she hastily added, "so we can just forget about it, pretend it didn't happen."

She was rambling and if history was any indication, she would likely continue unless stopped. Also, this was a lot of talking about it despite her first statement. He almost wasn't able to hold back pointing that out to her but her drawn face and puffy eyes reminded him that such a thing would likely be unwise. She looked worse than he felt and he felt terrible.

"Molly…"

"And I nicked some levonorgestrel so all bases are covered there."

Her voice was rising in pitch, almost a squeak, as she alleviated his fears of possible parenthood.

"Molly…" he started again but once more she seemed to either not hear him or just ignore him.

"I'm going to get cleaned up and then I'll check up on you, though you seem amazingly recovered despite… everything." And with that, she was gone down to the hall. He heard the shower turn on a minute later. After five minutes, the kettle was boiling and he managed to pull himself up to a standing position. The pills she'd given him had done their work and he no longer felt the vertigo he had no so long before. He managed to find her stash of tea and set it to steep. He then made his way back to the couch, the exertion of his trip to the kitchen enough to make him want to lie down again.

Five minutes later, she reappeared, looking only marginally better with wet hair and a fresh change of clothes. She glanced at him for only a moment before checking on the tea and pouring them both a cup.

"Have you eaten anything?"

"No."

"You should, those meds can upset your stomach."

That explained the continuing nausea. He picked up a cracker and forced it down as she set his cup in front of him. She didn't sit down herself, opting instead to stand on the outskirts of the room, holding tightly to her cup and sipping it despite the fact that it was still likely scalding.

He found himself at a loss for what to say but after a time she filled the room with her voice once again.

"It was awful," she whispered. "John and Lestrade were there today. John didn't say much but the inspector, he kept asking questions and not being able to finish them without… getting a hold of himself." She glanced over at him before focusing on her tea once more. "They're devastated, Sherlock."

"They're safe." He stated plainly, not knowing what to think about what she'd just shared with him. She nodded at what he'd said.

"And are you?" she asked.

"If both the inspector and John believe it, then yes, I believe I am."

She nodded again and silence filled the room once more. He studied her as she continued to absently look from her tea to the street outside her window. The redness in her eyes was returning. She was about to cry again. A moment later, she sniffed and wiped at her eyes.

"Its just nerves." She told him with a hitch in her voice without looking at him. "Just nerves," she whispered, wiping the other cheek of the tear that had escaped.

It was more than that. One didn't need skills or talents such as his to know that but he wasn't going to contradict her half lie. He wouldn't know how without somehow mucking it up and making everything worse. John would. John would know how to handle a situation like this, would know how to handle a woman that was on the verge of breaking down. But John wasn't here and the best thing for him to do was keep his mouth shut lest he make matters worse. Normally he wouldn't care how his words were received but normally he wasn't speaking with people that mattered. Molly mattered. She'd saved his life and risked her job and freedom in order to help him. She wasn't built for this sort of thing. She wasn't built for being able to handle being his assistant. She wasn't a soldier like John had been, someone that thirsted for adrenaline inducing excitement and danger. She was a doctor whose patients, until he came along, had all been dead. He'd gotten her involved in something that was completely out of her depth and incredibly dangerous in so many ways.

"Thank you." He said quietly while looking at her. "Thank you, Molly Hooper, for everything." He hoped it was enough, that it was a good expression of his gratitude. He kept it simple in the hopes that he wouldn't screw it up somehow. Without John as his social barometer he felt a distinct lack of confidence in his abilities in this area. In this, he was the one out of his depth. When she turned to him, a real smile on her lips, tiny but real, he was certain that he'd succeeded.

She nodded. "More tea?" she asked.

"Yes, please." He hadn't yet touched his cup.

XxXxX

AN: Thank you to all you lovely reviewers, you really kicked me in the creative but to continue this one shot!

CeffylGwyn: Oh, thank you! I'm glad you liked it and the song. My first favorite!  
Crede Biron: Thanks. I never see it happening in the series either but that's what fan fiction is for, right? And now you know about Sherlock's POV. Glad the details worked for you.  
magicstrikes: Great. And I think this answers your question. :)  
MorbidbyDefault: Frantic and hot, just what I was going for! Were the next day emotions believable? I hope so.  
AnnMore: ROFL. I like to try my hand at different things from time to time when the mood strikes. Full time? Wow, that sounds like a lot of work, lol. Mizjoely: Glad you thought so. I wish I'd been an English major since I know I mess up my grammar a bit. But I'm glad it didn't take away from the story too much. I'm glad it didn't come across as romantic since that's not what I was going for. I wanted it carnal and frantic. Lucky for you, I couldn't ignore all the attention this 'one shot' got and here you go. And since then, my mind has planned for more.  
AuroraRose16: Yeah, I don't think this would ever happen in series but it's fun to dream, lol. I decided to do a fairly silent Sherlock for the morning after. Glad you liked it!  
Emma: haha, so pleased you liked it!  
Cynna1012: You got your wish! Hope the morning after met expectations.  
KeeperoftheNine: Haha, I got you to watch the series! That's awesome. It's such a good one and now I'm chomping at the bit for the next season. They do both need an… outlet and this seems like a good way to go about it (to me anyway, lol). Thank you! Too kind.


	3. Chapter 3

**300% More**

Sherlock stayed in her flat a little under two weeks, during which time he spent the first half recovering and the second he spent pacing her living room making plans that he didn't share with her in the least. At first, she wanted to be upset with him because of it but quickly realized that she had no reason to know, therefore, he had no reason to inform her. At least she was fairly certain that's how he'd rationalized it.

There were no repeats of the "incident". That's what she started to refer to it in her mind and he never once mentioned it or even hinted at it. If Molly hadn't been an actual participant to the _incident_, she might have thought it never happened. She felt both relieved and disappointed in that fact. Relieved by the fact that they didn't have to deal with the obvious awkwardness that inevitably follows those sorts of things (not that she'd ever experienced exactly that _sort_ of thing before). Disappointed by the fact that ignoring it and pretending it never happened made her feel rather cheap and unimportant. She knew she shouldn't feel that way, that if she'd been unimportant he never would have come to her for help in the first place but it didn't extinguish the burning sting, no matter how hard she tried to rationalize it as she knew he already had.

Then one morning, on her first day off since he'd started playing possum, he told her he was leaving. She asked where, he said he couldn't tell her. Of course he _could_ tell her, he just chose not to and she chose not to question him further. Soon after, some rather official looking government types, the ridiculous idea of James Bond slipping into her mind, had collected him and he was gone.

However, not before he'd kissed her on the cheek and repeated his previous thanks to her.

"Thank you. Thank you Molly Hooper, for everything." It had warmed her just as much the second time as it had the first.

She didn't see him for two months. Ok, maybe it was more like seven weeks and five and a half days. She'd been home from a double shift at Barts for less than ten minutes when she heard a quiet knocking at her door. Checking the peep, her heart lodged itself in her throat when she saw just who was on the other side. It took her twice as long to open the door as it should have because of the ridiculous amount of shaking her fingers were doing but the moment she did, he stumbled inside, looking the worse for wear.

He had a gash above his right eye and blood had run into it, making him squeeze it shut. His hands were also a mess, the knuckles bruised and bloodied on one; the other was covered in blood. She didn't know if it was his or someone else's.

"Sorry for not ringing beforehand." He said as he stumbled in, almost taking her down to the floor when he'd nearly collapsed onto her.

"Oh, Sherlock," she managed to say as she pulled him into her kitchen, sat him on one of her stools and moved to fetch her med kit with little more than roll of her eyes as any indication of how bizarre and upsetting this should be. But since it was him, it just felt like what should be. At least, that's how she felt until he spoke a second time.

"They're dead."

Her hands stilled just as she finished cleaning his head wound.

"The three that attacked me." He seemed to have searched for those words. The next sentence came out even clumsier. "So no one could have followed me here."

"Oh." She cringed at her wholly unoriginal response as she pulled out a small vial of petroleum jelly and adrenalin hydrochloride in order to seal the cut and prevent it from bleeding any more. The wound seemed to want to continue to ooze, undoubtedly a result of his poor diet, making it harder for his body to from proper, fast forming clots. She started smoothing the small amount of paste just above his eye when he spoke again.

"You're safe." She absently nodded at the odd statement as she concentrated on applying two butterfly bandages to the wound. It wasn't until she'd finished applying the second and started to pull her hand away that she suddenly felt a massive wave of déjà vu. He gripped her wrist tightly, forcing her out of the mechanical mode of care giving doctor that she'd unknowingly fallen into. The quick, unexpected movement pulled her eyes to his and the déjà vu continued. She'd seen that same intensity of gaze before but this time it wasn't clouded by drugs.

She knew in that moment, she was the only thing he saw and was the only thing on his mind. To be the only thing on that man's mind was saying a lot.

Unlike last time, his approach was slower, more hesitant. While still sitting on his stool, he tentatively leaned into her.

This time she wasn't running entirely on adrenaline; she saw what he was doing and considered very carefully what she should do. She should step back, excuse herself from this before it started and put her med kit away. She should not let his lips gently touch hers as they were currently doing. She should voice her concerns, like how maybe this wasn't the best idea. She certainly knew that she shouldn't cup his cheek with her free hand as she had just begun doing. She should tell him that doing this again or anything resembling last time wasn't good for either of them, that it would only make their lives more awkward that it already was. That last time was easy to explain away and pretend to forget, a second time would be impossible to treat as such. Instead, when he released her wrist, she carded her fingers through his hair, uncaring that it was somewhat stiff with dried sweat and a little blood.

One of his hands slid to her waist, the other gripped the back of her thigh, just below her bum, pulling her between his legs. She couldn't help her intake of breath as she felt his physical reaction to her through the trousers of his leg. She finally found the will to act like an adult instead of the lovesick teenager that he always made her feel like.

She broke the kiss, resting her forehead against his. "We, we shouldn't." Well, it was 300% more words of sanity than she offered last time.

"I know," he answered against her lips before reclaiming them on the next breath with more force and confidence than he had at the start of this.

Well, at least he knew too. She foolishly and unsurprisingly found that it was enough for her. He stood then and turned them ninety degrees until she was pressed against the counter. This time, his fingers were on her pants' button and zipper for only a short time before they were successfully vanquished and both her kakis and knickers were being pushed down to mid thigh.

The entire time he did this, their mouths never left one another. This time, it was her tongue that invaded his mouth and he just accepted it, groaning each time she retreated for breath. Before long, she found herself hoisted onto her kitchen counter, a surprised squeak escaping her lips as the cold surface contrasted sharply against her warm, bare bottom. He chose that moment to taste the skin of her neck while undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. A ridiculous smile spread across her face a moment later when he took one of her hands and slipped it inside his shirt to touch his chest. He abandoned it the moment she took the hint.

He wanted her to touch him. Sherlock Holmes wanted _her_ to touch him. It seemed that the world was ending once more and Molly was more than willing to sit there and watch it burn. It wasn't just the world that had caught fire either; she felt like she was burning up from the inside out. The feeling was too much, so with her unoccupied hand, not daring to move her other from his chest that she was fully exploring, she tried to one handedly removed his belt. He began to help her and together they successfully pushed down the hindering material but only as minimally necessary.

He pulled his face away from hers, a shuddered breath escaping him when she once again took it upon herself to guide him to her. Molly watched as he stared in rapt fascination at where he was slowly pushing inside of her. It's like he was studying it and continued to do so for several slow penetrations before he squeezed his eyes shut and clutched her to him, his mouth back on her suddenly.

From then, he seemed to lose whatever control he'd maintained at the start and started thrusting into her rapidly. She wrapped one of her legs around his waist and then arched her back when one of his hands slid under her shirt, exploring the expanse of her stomach before sliding higher to test the feel of her bra covered breasts against his palm. For her part, she just leaned back supporting herself with one hand on the counter behind her. Following her, his mouth fell to her exposed collarbone and that's how they stayed for the rest of this second, frantic coupling. He came with a grimaced moan while she just cradled his head to her chest, both panting.

"I like the way you smell."

Molly let out a single huffed laugh. "God, I smell like a morgue."

"I know." With that, he stood up and with that same odd fascination from earlier, he watched as he pulled out of her. She couldn't tell if his furrowed brow was an indication of concentration or disgust. She certainly hoped it was the former but didn't have the courage to ask after it.

He stepped away from her and she almost stumbled as she slid off the counter, trying to cover up her clumsiness by reaching down and grabbing her pants. Feeling like she was stuck on repeat she excused herself to use the restroom once again and took a quick shower. He said nothing as she did this and said nothing upon her return. That probably had something to do with the fact that he was once gone by the time she got back.

Tears pricked at her eyes but instead of giving into the desire to let them fall, she took a deep breath and set about sanitizing her kitchen surfaces. Sex in the kitchen was not the most sanitary of things after all. She wouldn't see him for another three weeks.

XxXxX

Safe to say, Sherlock had never gotten around to deleting that first sexual experience and found that in the rare times when he wasn't actively seeking out members of Moriarty's network, thinking back to it was rather… pleasurable. So far, the memory of it hadn't hindered any of his work so he didn't see the point in getting rid of it.

When he'd found himself back in London after several weeks tracking down some people in Germany, he'd checked up on Molly without her knowledge. He wasn't sure why, he was already certain that she wasn't in any danger, just as John no longer was now that everyone thought he was dead but he just felt the need to make sure she was ok. He'd let himself in rather easily and found himself somewhat aghast at how poor her locks were. After determining that everything was as it should be, no signs of anything amiss, he took a few moments to sit down on her couch. The moment the memories of this place and the life he'd been forced to leave behind started to seep in, he rose and left.

Two weeks later, he found himself in a rather physical altercation with a few of the more dangerous and better trained members of the network and in need of some medical attention after it was all done with. He probably could have patched himself up but didn't question his automatic response to seek out her assistance.

For the first few minutes in her flat, he berated himself when the desire to touch her welled up within him completely against his wishes and better judgment. The moment she'd finished patching him up, he'd worked out a thousand reasons why he should just thank her once more and leave. Against good judgment, those thousand reasons didn't win out over his one counter argument: he wanted to. So he did.

He'd taken what he wanted again but this time, he knew full well what he was doing. He might have still been high on adrenaline from the fight but this time his mind was unclouded by drugs. He'd wanted to touch her, to be touched by her. It had been fascinating to watch himself disappear within her and simultaneously feel the pleasure it brought. He'd wanted to watch the whole time, study the act but it had become too much to process. The sounds she made, the feeling of her hand as it clawed through his hair combined with the her clench and slick heat had overwhelmed him. He hadn't wanted it to end but then it had, all too soon. As he breathed deeply, trying to regain his breath, he noticed the scent of her and his post coital tongue started moving on its own. It had been the truth though he did like the way she smelled and she was right, she did smell faintly of the morgue. She smelled like his life before when his greatest complication in life was avoiding boredom.

That had been what forced him from her flat. Everything came back, the friendships he'd unwittingly formed, the attachments, the comforts of his life before Moriarty. Everything that he kept at bay while trying to regain it all. He knew leaving so suddenly was the wrong thing to do, that it might hurt her but he could only hope that she'd take it in stride as she had the last time. They'd been able to go two weeks in the same flat without it being too much of an issue before. Certainly she'd be able to do the same again, wouldn't she? But he'd been afraid, afraid that if he didn't leave then, if he saw her once she returned, he might not ever leave again.

Nostalgia. That's what it was called, something else humans normally experienced. But he was not normal; he was not supposed to know these things. Yet again, he found himself threatening himself with deleting all of this.

"Oh do shut up," he said to the emptiness of the room he was sitting in. He wasn't going to do anything of the sort. However, he was going to push it aside as he focused on the next cell in Moriarty's crumbling empire. So he did, for another three weeks.

XxXxX

CeffylGwyn: I'm glad you think I pulled it off. It's just so hard to even imagine how a mind like that works so writing his internal dialogue is sketchy at best. I'll do my best and I'll probably wind up taking the easy way out and mostly writing this from perspectives other than Sherlock for that very reason. Inspiration, especially with great reviewers like you, shouldn't be a problem.  
AuroraRose16: Surprisingly smart for the social idiot that the tends to be. But he doesn't usually care if people are hurt by what he says. I just imagine that for ever smart comment he says aloud, there's probably twenty he deemed not as worthy of saying. Yeah, poor girl.  
MorbidbyDefault: So pleased that you thought so! Sherlock does force her to deal with a lot of drama both intentionally and unintentionally. He doesn't seem to deal with guilt very well since he seems to have the emotional maturity of a three year old. He definitely gave it another go but I don't think anything was remedied quite yet, if anything he's just mucked it up further. Your review was lovely and thank you for that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Not Again**

Not again. She would not allow it to happen again. That's what she'd been telling herself everyday since he'd disappeared on her. She'd resisted crying about it for three days, forced herself to feel clinical about it, imagining it almost as some bizarre nature special about the oddities of human mating practices. It had worked at first, aided the sudden increase in her workload but once things had slowed down to almost a trickle, the damn broke. She'd been sitting at her computer in the lab, typing up a report on a post mortem of an eighteen year old who'd been likely killed by her ex-boyfriend in a jealous rage when it had all just rushed to the forefront.

He'd just left her. He'd popped in after months of silence, of her not knowing if he was dead or alive and had a quick one off with her. Then he'd just left her. Disappearing again with no word for where he was going, what he was doing and if she'd ever see him again. She'd just started to weep while in the middle of typing a sentence. She'd outright sobbed as her stomach clenched in on itself painfully. She'd been hurt by him before. He'd made her feel foolish, made her feeling ugly, inadequate and tiny but he'd never made her feel so utterly used.

This was the first time she'd ever actually hated him for what he was, for the selfish prat he could be. She'd always forgiven him in the past so easily. He'd do something unthinkingly cruel through words and while she'd feel terrible about it for a moment, she'd have practically forgotten it by the next time she saw him. Not this time.

The first time on her couch had been practically mutual despite the fact that he'd been the one to instigate it. They'd both needed something and sex had been an adequate fill in for overcoming the bizarrely traumatic and emotional day. The last time however, it was different.

Despite how many times she'd tried to puzzle it out, she still wasn't positive why he'd come to her, why he'd let her clean a simple head wound and why he'd then… done that.

Now she wasn't placing all of the blame on him by any means. In fact, she'd placed the vast majority of it on herself. She shouldn't have been such a mouse. She shouldn't have let it happen a second time. She shouldn't have been the fool who entertained a little fairy tale ending in her head of declarations of love, well maybe not love but something, _anything_ sentimental, from him. She'd been a fool, a fool for the second time.

Fool her once, shame on him. Fool her twice… She knew how that saying went and it had applied to her so many times in the past. Actually, the count for her foolishness concerning him was embarrassingly in the dozens by now but this time was another matter. This was another level all together. This was not her letting him walk all over her so she would provide him with experiment materials. Those served a greater purpose as far as she was concerned. They might have helped to catch criminals, killers, might have saved lives. This, however, did no such thing. It served no higher purpose, not that she could bring herself to rationalize anyway. She did have some self respect after all.

How many times over the past three weeks had she exercised mock debates with him? Too many for an average non-mental person most likely. In all of them, she was singularly eloquent, shutting down any and all of his numerous imagined witty, scathing or angry retorts with a confidence she'd never actually displayed around him but whole heartedly believed she could muster the next time she saw him, if she saw him…

She took another sip of wine from her forth glass of wine, from a now empty bottle of red. She had another sitting in the corner of her kitchen and already she was eyeing it despite the unfinished nature of her current glass. She chose not to think about the possibly tripled expenditure of alcohol she'd put out this month. So maybe she'd overindulged recently, its not like she was an alcoholic. She was just a bit more on edge lately. She took another sip, followed quickly by a third, barely even tasting the bittersweet liquid before swallowing.

God she hated him right now. He'd ruined her life, completely and utterly. He'd turned her into a felon, a liar and a drunk, forcing her to realize what an unrequited lovesick ninny she'd become.

Hated him.

If he were here right now, she'd smack him. She might even do it twice, maybe even three times for good measure. It might not make her feel any better but it certainly couldn't make her feel any worse.

A knock on her door caused her to gasp as she took another sip, causing the liquid to be inadvertently drawn down her windpipe, burning instantly. The instantaneous fit of coughing sent red wine shooting from her mouth and simultaneously dribbling from her nose.

Molly slammed her glass down on the counter as she fought to bring both of her hands instinctively to her mouth. Another round of loud coughing ensued as her body tried desperately to expel the intruding liquid from the improper passage. She sprinted over to the sink and continued coughing over it as she turned on the water. Once the most recent bout passed, she let her cupped hands fill with water before she gulped some down, trying to soothe the burning the wine had caused. It worked only slightly before another round of hacking overtook her. Once that one passed, she finally started to get her regular breathing back. She blew her nose into her hands and washed away the mostly reddish fluid before grabbing the soap off its tray and quickly setting about washing her hands and face.

She was certain she must look a red-faced mess as she reached for the dishtowel. She dabbed her face and turned to quickly go see who was at the door but screamed once she pulled the cloth away from her eyes. Her heart felt like it was going to explode from the momentary shock at seeing someone standing right in front of her in her kitchen.

"You bastard!" She shouted uncharacteristically, the adrenaline coursing through her veins at _his_ sudden appearance fueling her outburst. She would also blame her next move on it as well as she threw the dishrag at him before slapping him unceremoniously across the face. She automatically moved to shove him back from her, maybe smacking him again in the process when he caught her hand in one of his. It didn't stop her momentum or her still free hand as she managed to shove him back a few feet. It was only after hearing his pained grunt that she saw the blood, both on him and now on her hand.

"Oh my god, Sherlock!"

"Are you quite done?" He still managed to sound haughtily superior despite his obvious pain.

His admonishment almost brought back her full ire from only a split second ago before she rolled her eyes. It only took a moment longer before her medical training kicked in and her eyes started assessing the wound. Two seconds later and she could easily see that it was a rather shallow, if not heavily bleeding gash across his chest that was likely caused by a smooth and very sharp bladed knife. Seeing the cut across the underside of his other forearm only added to her assessment since it looked like one of the hundreds of defensive knife wounds she'd seen though the course of her career. Albeit, when she normally saw them, they weren't actively bleeding but she'd knew enough to know how to handle a fresh wound as well as an aged one.

"Just sit down." She commanded, a little of her previous irritation and anger she'd felt over the past three weeds leaking into her tone. If she'd been looking at his face and not at his injuries as she tried to determine the best way to treat them, she would have seen the uncertain look that passed through his features.

After making sure that he was sitting securely and not going to pass out from blood loss, she moved off to grab her med kit from under the sink. Setting it on the counter next to him, she opened it and proceeded to treat first the wound on his arm, the deeper of the two, before moving onto his chest. Both cuts were superficial but both still require stitches. For the umpteenth time, she was thankful for her medical training and her well-stocked kit. She finished the final stitch on his chest and then tapped a sterile gauze bandage over the knitted wound. The moment she finished pressing it to his skin, she drew back, far out of his reach, unwilling to even contemplate a repeat of the last time.

She actually pressed herself against her refrigerator before she dared to look up at him. When she did, she saw how his brow was furrowed, not in pain but apparent confusion. He was the first to break the silence that had pervaded the room for the past thirty minutes.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

Silence again. It became oppressive as the seconds ticked by before Molly couldn't stand it any longer.

"You'll need something for the pain when those locals wear off."

"I'll be fine."

Silence again. They both just remained there, him sitting, her standing. The moment he started to speak, she cut him off, unable to contain herself any longer. She'd waited weeks with one, very torturous question running through her mind at all hours of the day.

"Why did you… do what you did and then just… leave?" She sputtered out. It didn't come out as eloquently as it had in her numerous mental fantasies but there was anger and sorrow mixed up in her tone. The poorly worded vagueness didn't seem to affect his comprehension at all, of course it didn't. However, he only answered the second half of her question.

"I had to leave, staying in one place for too long can be dangerous."

And the bit he did deign to answer only pissed her off. Was he purposely avoiding what she actually wanted to know or had he really thought that's the answer she'd been looking for?

"You didn't have to come at all." He didn't answer at first and shifted uncomfortably in his chair before he finally let something out.

"I was injured and your skills are impeccable," he replied lamely. She saw through it in a heartbeat. She had been taken in by the meagerest of compliments in the past and allowed herself to do his bidding as a result. Not this time.

"Nothing you couldn't have fixed on your own. A Band-Aid could have taken care of it."

He looked away from her suddenly, off to another part of the room at nothing in particular. He didn't answer so she poked at the wounded and cornered animal that was sitting in her kitchen.

"Why?"

He didn't answer.

"Why?" she asked again.

Still, he said nothing. Now she was getting really angry. Everything she'd felt over the past few weeks started to come back and with a vengeance. The pain and loss she'd felt when he'd just been there one minute and gone the next, the worry over what had happened to him and what might still happen to him and the nagging feeling of being completely and utterly used by him came hurtling back to the forefront of her mind, driving her next words from her with the wrath of a woman scorned.

"You come in here, fuck me and then disappear. Then when you come back, injured again and looking for my aid, you don't have the common decency to answer one god-dammed question? You arrogant, selfish, ruthless bastard!"

"Molly I…"

"WHY?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

She'd never heard him yell like that before. He'd snapped at people, at John or Lestrade but never in the almost scared way she'd just heard. It startled her a bit, took a little wind out of her anger filled sails but not completely.

"You don't know." She said quietly to herself. "That's… great." She'd looked down at her hands, still stained with his blood since she'd put on her latex gloves without washing her hands first. She took that moment to move to the sink and clean up. "You want to know what I know?" She didn't expect an answer to her rhetorical question but of course Sherlock would answer it.

"I would." He sounded hopeful and Molly wanted to scream at him for it. Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek and just turned on the water before scrubbing her hands furiously beneath its warm stream.

"I know that I'll keep helping you." She heard him stand up from his seat, the stool scraping along the flooring as he did. "But," she added quickly, "we cannot do what we did last time."

"Why?" he asked quietly behind her, too close to her for her comfort. _'You selfish bastard.'_

"You know why."

"If I did, I would not have asked the question." He shot back tersely. Damn him for that.

She squeezed her eyes shut and just held her hands beneath the water without moving. Did he really not? Was he really this obtuse? Could he really be this emotionally stunted? She didn't know if she wanted him to be lying to her or telling her the truth, either seemed rather terrible at the moment.

"Because," she took a deep breath, "because I can't be the person you do that with. If that's something you need, then find someone else." She frowned to herself but felt her normal rambling self start to burst through, too uncomfortable with what she was saying. Anger and adrenaline could only bolster her for so long. "I mean, not with someone you've been with before since you're obviously supposed to be dead but..." He cut her off before she could fumble over any other words.

"There wasn't anyone else before."

That statement made her eyes snap open. She turned suddenly, uncaring that her hands were soaking wet and dripping water everywhere. An unbelieving, incredulous laugh escaped her suddenly and without thinking she responded.

"_You_ were a virgin?" He might not have winced at her words in the slightest but she certainly did. "I mean, you… never?"

"No. Not with another person. Hence my saying there wasn't anyone else before. Why does everyone make me repeat myself?"

"What the hell, Sherlock?" She just gaped at him, completely ignoring his rather mild insult and completely unprepared with how to respond to that. Of all the imagined conversations and arguments she'd had with her imaginary Sherlock, this had never been one of them, not even close. She thought back to the day of his fall, to the fumbled movements, the lack of coordination and his complete lack of attention paid to anything but himself. She'd attributed it to the drugs and his brush with death. This new bit of information was like the final piece of a puzzle.

"God, that… that makes sense actually. I mean the sex it wasn't very goo…" She stopped herself before getting out the last syllable, quickly realizing that he was actually in the room, that this was not one of her pretend conversations. Her eyes shot to his and she could tell that her words both increased his confusion and also looked like he might have been hurt by her words. She felt a pang of something akin to guilt but refused let it overwhelm her. She was too tired, too drunk and now too emotionally exhausted to feel anything too deeply. Instead, she laughed. It started out as little more than a giggle before morphing into a full-bellied guffaw. Tears started to stream down her cheeks as it continued, unchecked despite the cold look she was now receiving from the man standing only a few feet from her.

"Do not laugh at me, Molly Hooper." He spat through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry, I..." But the laughter continued around her attempted. "I really am," she tried again, wiping at her eyes as she spoke, "but this is just too much." He was now starting to look as angry as she'd felt just before he'd knocked on her door. "I mean really, what do you want me to say? I've never been here before, never done anything like this and I've certainly never been _anyone's_ first. Never thought I would be." It all came out in a rush and couldn't help the last little chuckle that escaped her when she realized she'd gotten all of that out without a single stutter.

"If it was my lack of experience that's vexing you, I would improve with practice, with instruction."

She gaped at him. He really didn't get it did he? He thought… She shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Through the anger in his voice, he sounded so damned earnest. She couldn't help the little twist she felt deep in her belly when she realized that he wanted to be with her again. She thought about pressing him again as to why he'd ever wanted her in the first place but quickly realized he'd just get upset with her for asking the same question again and that he'd only give her the same answer once more, perhaps spitting out some snide comment about her ability to recall it. Instead, she tried a different tactic as she was now armed with this new knowledge. For the first time since she'd met him, she had the distinct advantage. He once again wanted something from her but this time she wasn't falling over herself to provide him with it.

"What do you get out of it?"

"I…" She was amazed that he seemed to be fumbling over his words. Oh how the tables had turned. "It feels good." He finally supplied rather lamely.

"So would your hand or have you never done that either."

He flushed; his cheeks actually coloring a pretty shade of pink after she said that.

"I have," he mumbled. "It's not the same."

"Explain to me how it's different then." She wasn't going to let him out of this one easily. He turned away from her suddenly, grabbing her nearly full glass of wine and downing its contents in several large draughts. He then flung the glass into her living room and it shattered against her wall. She jumped back, her eyes wide for a moment before irritation hit her. What a melodramatic git.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" On automatic pilot, she started to head for her broom closet to clean up the ridiculous mess he'd made but as she passed by him, she felt his hand wrap around her upper arm painfully as he spun her around. No soon had he turned her to face than, then his lips crashed down onto hers. If almost felt punishing but there was an air of desperation behind the act. At first, she did nothing, too stunned to even think. It didn't last for long however, before the two words she'd been echoing to herself for the past three weeks screamed out in her mind. _'Not again.'_

With that, she violently pulled away from him and slapped him hard across the face, the resounding slap echoing through her small flat. He released her, the shock plain to see in his features. She held her fingers up to her bruised lips. She could still taste him and the wine.

"You can't just take it." She whispered, looking away from him to the floor between their feet. "You should go."

"No."

Her features pinched together in frustration.

"Just go." She didn't even have the strength to yell at him or even look at him.

"No."

"Fine." She stepped away from him, ignoring the shattered glass that was all over her floor in the other room. "I'm going to bed." She heard him moving behind her. "Alone." The movement behind her stopped. "You can have the couch, just make sure there isn't any glass on it." She didn't even look back before disappearing down the hall and locking herself in her bedroom. If he picked this lock, she'd upgrade his status to actually dead.

XxXxX

AN: So… Sherlock seems to have a bit of a habit forming. Get hurt, go see Molly, have sex but the girl finally got some brass. Too forceful? Did I stray into ooc territory with this one or did the situation make it believable? How about Sherlock? He's sooooo hard to write, it's ridiculous. Ugh. I haven't been this self-conscious about my writing in a loooong time. Hope it was enjoyable at least.

MizJoely: (2) I am, it's hard to let some storylines go so here I am. I might actually take you up on that. It seems I can never catch all my mistakes, not matter how many times I proofread it. (3) I love it when a line catches someone's attention enough for them to point it out me. ROFL, I've noticed that now that I've read some more of it. I'd love to read your take on it. MorbidbyDefault: He'd definitely getting distracted, we don't know if it's the cause of his injuries yet or not but we'll know soon enough. Yup, lots of miscommunication but Molly is trying. Unfortunately, for all his genius, Sherlock is out of his depth in this one and just not making the right connections. Plus, he's ridiculously stubborn and childish. Not a good combination for getting anywhere meaningful. LOL, thank you very much! CeffylGwyn: Thanks! You're too sweet. I'm glad you liked that, it was fun to think about, having him try to analyze it as it's happening, tehe. I think it's perfectly reasonable to feel bad for her, she's having to put up with a lot at the moment. KeeperoftheNine: (2) Glad you approve. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. As far as this chapter is concerned, he most certainly did but Molly finally got over her being gobsmacked by it and put her foot down. Go Molly! (even though I want to write some more smexiness, lol) (3) You know it! Very rocky since she's been too willing in the past and he's too emotionally stunted to deal with hit properly. We'll see how it goes from here. Kathmak: I agree completely with this never happening in official canon. In fact, I'd probably be pretty disappointed if by some bizarre turn of events, this sort of thing happened in the actual series. But in fanfiction… good golly Miss Molly, I'm all for it! :) cdsnow: Glad you thought so. Thanks for letting me know. kawoosh: I hope it was worth the wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Welcome Back**

Her eyes fluttered open and like most mornings, her mind struggled to hold onto the images that had been flitting through it only to have them slip away entirely by the time she managed to sit up. This morning, the dreams didn't stand a chance at being remembered since her immediate attention was given to the rather unpleasant throbbing behind her eyes. Speaking of unpleasant, the cottony quality of her tongue and its foul flavor also left something to be desired. She really needed to stop drinking so much wine. She used to be a one glass every few days sort of girl, not a bottle a night…

Oh god. She didn't drink a whole bottle last night. She hadn't gotten the chance since none other than her occasional houseguest had finished her last glass for her, really finished it. She ran through the night's activities and conversation with relative clarity, the alcohol doing nothing to help her forget it. Unlike her easily forgotten dreams, last night remained quite clear despite that she would rather it not. After all, she hadn't had _that_ much to drink; just enough to make her regret the volume until she managed to drink some water and eat some toast.

The things she'd said to him last night, she regretted half of it She'd acted appallingly after he'd revealed that… She hadn't actually meant to laugh at him and in fact, she hadn't been. She'd just been so surprised and overwhelmed, let alone drunk. Still, it was no excuse. She could only imagine if her first, Peter, had laughed at her like that. She would have been beyond mortified and hurt. Was that the sort of drunk she was? The mean, cruel sort?

She buried her head in her hands, wracked with guilt. She had to take several deep breaths and wipe the sleep from her eyes before she found the wherewithal to stand. She grabbed her robe and tied the cord loosely around her waist. Opening her door, she immediately halted in her tracks. She heard movement in her kitchen and the clink of metal on ceramic. He was still here. Oh god, of all the times he sticks around, it has to be the morning after she acted like a complete jerk.

The last time, the question she'd asked herself had been 'why did he leave?' This time, it was quite the opposite. Despite the strong urge to do so, she didn't sneak back into her room and dive under the covers. She might have really, really wanted to but she refused to sink to that level of coward.

Tentatively, she stepped down her short hall before steeling herself for her appearance around the corner. The moment she stepped into view, a very rested if not somewhat manic looking Sherlock walked over to her with a mug of tea in his hand. He unceremoniously pushed it into her hands before speaking.

"You weigh 116 and a half pounds and consumed roughly three quarters of a bottle of a rather high alcohol per volume cabernet, some rather low end swill that's decidedly high sulfites, in the span of one hour before sleeping for only five hours and fifteen minutes. You didn't feel the need to urinate yet so you didn't drink anything besides the wine last night so you're quite dehydrated. You also, judging by the content of your bin, you didn't seem to eat much more than a bag of crisps as your supper, hardly nutritionally sound. You likely have a headache." He finished as he moved back into the kitchen seemingly intent on something else now, not having actually looked at her.

She felt like a deer caught in headlights and the only thing she could do was sputter out the first thing that came to her lips. "I um, yeah, I do have a headache actually but why did you feel the need to…"

"The chamomile tea. Mild sedative affects for the headache, no caffeine due to the dehydration, sugar for the lack of simple carbs in your system." He answered without turning around. "And," he added, "some toast for more complex carbs though whole grain would have been better for that but this was all I could find in your cupboards. Eggs would have been ideal but again, you're lowly stocked. You could seriously do with a trip to the market." He turned then with a plate of said food sitting on it and held it out to her.

It remained in his extended hand for a few moments. She broke from her frozen, mouth-agape state at the threshold of her little kitchen when he finally raised his eyes from the plate he was still patiently holding and up to her eyes.

"Oh, well thank you." She finally managed to whisper out; still a bit shocked by the odd scene she'd walked into and shuffled the few steps to take the offered plate. The moment it was in her hands, it suddenly wasn't anymore as he took it from her once more as well as the cup of tea. He carried them to the counter and set them down, pulling out a stool, the same one he'd sat on the night before.

"Sit."

Molly couldn't find it in herself to do anything but do as he'd ordered. She sat down and looked up to see him looking back at her expectantly. His eyes dropped to her tea and she took the silent request. Picking up her cup, she took a sip. As she did, he started to speak again.

"I'm nearly done."

She swallowed.

"With what?"

He rolled his eyes and started pacing within the confines of her tiny kitchen, his manic behavior continuing. This was the Sherlock Holmes she remembered. The one that would barge into her morgue and coerce her with either little compliments or biting remarks into allowing him free reign with her equipment and even a corpse or two from time to time. He seemed confident once more, sure of himself and… pleased with himself. It left her unsure of how she should react to him, especially after last night.

"With everything that needed be done before I can return."

She was glad that she managed to swallow her sip of tea without coughing as her eyes went wide. "That's what you've been doing?"

"Obviously."

"How?"

He stopped his pacing for a moment to return her question with a hard stare before he started moving once more. It might have been obvious to him but the only thing that was obvious to her was that he wasn't willing to answer that question at this time, perhaps never.

"Well that's… fabulous, really." And she found herself actually smiling. It'd been such a foreign expression on her for these past months but it seemed to come back easily enough. "Oh Sherlock, they'll be so happy, John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm going to let John punch me."

The incongruous statement threw her for another loop, sputtering into her tea. "What!"

"It will be his first inclination. I'm going to let him do it."

She wasn't sure what to think of that. Hell, she wasn't sure what to think of him making her breakfast either. In fact, she just didn't know what to think about anything with him lately.

"It might break my nose."

She just looked at him quizzically but he had looked away from her, walking to the front door and pulling his coat off the hook.

"I will need someone to set it."

"Sherlock." She stood from her stool just as he was opening her door and checking the hallway to see if anyone else occupied it. He didn't respond and looked like he was just about to leave. He couldn't do this to her again, just disappear. Sure, this time he'd at least given her a 'soon' and some hope that he'd be ok, but she needed to say something before he walked away from her again. "Don't… don't you dare leave yet."

He hesitated but slowly closed the door again. However, he didn't turn to face her.

"I…" But all of her momentary bravado had now fled her. "I'm sorry." She whispered out. He turned his head to the side, his eyes looking at her feet.

"After I've spoken to John, may I drop by?"

She really needed to stop being surprised by the fact that everything he did surprised her. "Y-yeah, sure."

"Another month, maybe two. Oh, and I cleaned up the glass." And with that, he opened the door and slipped out of it, closing it behind him.

XxXxX

Mycroft watched as his younger brother paced the length of his office for the fifth time.

"Oh please do sit down." Sherlock looked over at him but didn't desist.

"I don't see why I bloody well need those papers. It should be clear enough to even the slowest dimwit out there that I'm not, indeed, dead."

Mycroft just sighed. His brother had never been able to control his seemingly ever-present agitation to any great degree and patience in matters he deemed trivial had never been his forte. Today was just a continuation of normalcy, something at which Mycroft quietly breathed a sigh of relief. Over the past six months since his brother's 'death', they had not spent much time in one another's physical presence but they had communicated more in that short span of time than they perhaps had in the past ten years. During that time, Sherlock had not been himself. He'd been the same singularly dedicated person he'd always known but he'd been… morose in a way that he'd never been before. It seemed Moriarty had been cleverer than he thought. Not even Mycroft had realized how much the few people that his brother normally associated with had become important to him.

His loner of a brother had finally developed real, meaningful connections to something other than his numerous experiments, puzzles and violin. It had started with his tolerance and eventual fondness for his landlady. Then DI Lestrade had not only recognized Sherlock's brilliance but hadn't been intimidated by it. Instead, the inspector had seen his brother for the wealth of help he could be. Bless him for being able to endure the genius's acerbic personality. Then came the oddity of a flat mate. For a moment in time, Mycroft seriously wondered if his asexual brother's unusual psychology had finally made a decision. But when it became clear that John Watson was in no way homosexual, he realized it was just his brother's unusual progression towards forming a true friendship.

So it had started with the motherly role he'd been denied as a child, moved onto professional acknowledgement and finally progressed to friendship. The next logical step in his oddly stunted social development obviously pointed to companionship of some sort, male or female but the older brother wasn't going to hold his breath. It had taken Sherlock thirty-five years to make a friend, anything more complicated than that would be beyond imaginings.

Though he'd never say so aloud, he was genuinely happy for his brother. The younger man would only meet any expression or even indication of such feelings on his part with distain, so he kept them close to the vest.

Also over the course of the past half-year, Mycroft had done nothing but endeavor to rectify his egregious errors that he'd made concerning both Moriarty and his brother. It never would have come to this in the first place, at least not in that particular fashion, if he hadn't supplied the dangerous psychopath with the ammunition he'd then deviously used. As a result, he'd called in numerous favors in order to secure his brother's eventual return from the dead ranging from newspaper writers and editors to politicians and high ranking members within London's New Scotland Yard.

Not to mention ensuring that the pathologist that had enabled Sherlock to survive his own death would escape the coming scandal mostly unscathed. It had been impressed upon him enough times by the younger man that her job and reputation must be kept fully intact lest he 'lose his easy access Saint Bartholomew's excellent facilities'. His brother would never cease to be obsessed with his little experiments it seemed.

"I suggest you start with Baker Street. I've kept up with the payments on the flat with Mrs. Hudson. I led her to believe that some sort of sentiment led me to keep it as it were, asking her to keep everything tidy indefinitely."

"She's my landlady, not my housekeeper." Sherlock supplied tersely.

"But of course. Apologies." Mycroft responded sarcastically.

"Where the bloody hell is this damn notary." He then said something about government bureaucracy and its inefficiencies but it was mumbled under his breath.

"You've only been here five minutes, dead for six months, another two minutes will not kill you."

Sherlock shot him a withering look before slumping down on leather chair he stood closest too. It seemed he would never grow out of such petulant acts.

"So will you see Mrs. Hudson first?"

With head thrown back, staring at the ceiling, Sherlock spoke with airy resignation. "Yes, Mycroft, I will reintroduce myself to her first. Followed by John and then, after Lestrade has been reinstated into his old position, I will approach him."

"You remember Watson's new address?" This earned him a look that he would wager conveyed 'have you been lobotomized in the past few minutes?' "Yes, well then, have you any other plans?"

"Other than making sure that your boys adequately finish what I've started?"

"My boys, as you so put it, will not need any oversight from you." Sherlock just snorted from his seat that he was now slouched far down in, legs spread wide as they bounced frantically on the balls of his feet. Mycroft ignored it. "We've dealt with the dangerous element that prevented your return, the rest is being handled as we deem necessary.

"God save us all," his brother muttered from his sulking seat. At that moment, the door opened and Miss Glasser walked in carrying a neat stack of papers. Sherlock was out of his seat like a shot from a gun, snatched the papers away and pulled her over to the desk where he proceeded to flip through the papers at an alarming rate, signing and initialing in all the necessary spaces. He scrawled out his name on the final page, shoved the papers back into the indignant woman's arms and spun to leave.

"There's a misspelling on page eight," he said as he strode through the door, slamming it behind him.

"Thank you Miss Glasser, that will be all. Please have a copy sent to 221b Baker St."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

She left, leaving Mycroft alone. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Sherlock."

XxXxX

AN: Odd insight: After rereading my previous chapter, I cringed a little bit at my portrayal of Molly. I'll admit that I wrote it while under the influence of a nice Merlot and it seemed that both Molly and I are affected greatly by its delicious effects. Still, I'm sticking with it and tried to soften her a bit (though not make her weak) with the first bit of this chapter. That being said, next chapter we might get a bit of Sherlock POV (gotta psyche myself up for those ones).

MizJoely: Agreed. Hopefully I can do it in a way that's not glaringly ooc as I too don't want to write a pathetic Molly but I also don't want to write a Molly in name only. Yes, believable evolution is the key. This sucker started out as no more than a smutty one shot, I'll be damned if I don't get it back to its roots eventually. :) Typos: Always working hard against them. I'll have that Renaissance fixed by the time you read this. So sweet. Kathmak: Thanks! I'll be honest with you. When I wrote it, I didn't mean for her to be laughing at his virginity. That's one of the oversights I'll blame on the booze but it definitely reads that way. I tried to make up for it a bit with this chap. Originally, I just wanted it to be one of those sorta mental breakdown fits of laughter, not of the lol variety. Of course they'll kiss and make up but I'm a silly angst writer and thus will do my best to make them (and you) earn it, lol. Hot4Neville: Yes, she was, in spades no less. Thanks for the not ooc vote, it means a lot. Luckily you can blame some quirky character shifts on booze, the lazy writers fall guy. Sassy Molly isn't gone though but she's going to have to find her without the aid of social lubricants. CeffylGwyn: I'm glad you feel sorry for him, that's what I was hoping to evoke. Why oh why is the idea of someone who's just not getting it, so much fun to write? Agreed, a very hard task. We'll see if I'm up to it. As far as that line, I find stolen kisses to be one of the sexiest ideas in romantic fiction. Their dichotomy of being both innocent and insidious is intoxicating for me (gives my chest the little constriction feeling, aka: angst). Oh, it never distracted from Price, I was just too sad to post the last chapter… it's like the end of an era… :( ROFL, an easy mistake to make. Our brains are awesome that way. Morbidbydefault: She might have been a smidge more ballsy that might have been characteristically prudent but I'll blame the wine (for both her verboseness and my shoddy writing). Glad it was still a good read for you though! Rocking the Readhead: He is. Unfortunately, none of his other experiences have really prepared him for this. I imagine it as though he's thirteen (maturity wise) in this respect. It's going to be hard for him to get a grasp on it without making some really immature mistakes. Combine that with a huge ego and brilliant mind… recipe for craziness. That line, "It felt good," is the crux… but we would all assume he meant physically… see what I'm going for? Oh, I look forward to whatever Moffat/Gatiss come up with and agreed, in this story, it is far more that just an act. AuroraRose16: It was needed, though it was a bit ham fisted. Sexy times will come gain. You know me Aurora, I can't help myself in that regard. No, it's not wrong at all… it was mine too. You just might get what you want in that regard, lol.


	6. Chapter 6

**Quality of Interest**

He stared at his cup of black coffee, at the way the dark liquid would shimmer and ripple as he bounced his knee beneath the table while he reminisced over how things had finally started to look up.

Six months ago, his world had come crashing down around him. He questioned everything, from his dead friend's intentions to his own sanity. He'd refused to believe anything he'd heard about Sherlock since that day, even said man's final words to him. He could not and never would believe that it had all been an elaborate ruse.

John Watson had seen too many devilishly clever feats and too many fascinatingly solved cases to ever bloody well believe that Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, had been anything but perfectly genuine in his feats and abilities. He was a self absorbed, socially stunted prat but he was no liar.

John shook his head and internally scolded himself for allowing this redundant line of thought to take over his morning ritual once more. There were far more pleasant and far less depressing things he could be filling his mind with this morning. For example, he should be thinking about the woman who'd excused herself from his flat only an hour before and more specifically, about the very wonderful things they'd done first on his couch and then in his bedroom. He could be thinking about the wonderful way she'd woken him from his first peaceful sleep in months. That's what should be in his thoughts, not Sherlock Holmes. It was sick, really. So he made a conscious decision to smack himself the next time he slipped up and thought of the consulting detective rather than Mary.

Yes, that was an excellent idea and he smiled as he raised the now cooling drink to his lips. Just as he was about to take a long awaited sip, a knock came at the door. He quickly set the cup down and strode to the door, hoping against hope that Mary was back to surprise him with a day off of work.

He unbolted the door and swung it wide. The smile on his face immediately vanished. In its place his features all pinched together, his jaw offset to the left and he canted his head as if the slight change in perspective would yield him a different vision than what he originally saw.

There, stood none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself. Before John even had a proper chance to question his own sanity, he shook his head and closed the door once more.

"Nope." He said curtly but didn't move away from his spot. He just kept shaking his head, his hand still on the doorknob. "No, I did not just see Sherlock Holmes in front of my flat."

"Yes, John, you did." A muffled response came from beyond the door, from the ghost he'd just seen.

"No, I did not." He argued through the door, raising his voice to compensate for the wooden obstruction. "Because if I did, that would mean something very, very wrong has been going on for the past half a BLOODY YEAR!" he yelled, his heart was pounding now and his breathing had just doubled in rate. Why couldn't it have been Mary, safe, pretty, liked to say his name during sex, undoubtedly alive, Mary? Why did this life hate him so?

"Open the door, John."

"Sod off."

"I'd rather not explain through the door."

"You'd rather not," John exclaimed incredulously just before he ripped open the door. "_You'd rather not!_ You unbelievable bastard!" The next moments happened in a bit of a blur but they resulted in Sherlock grasping his nose as blood soaked his shirt and jacket while Watson shook out his hand cursing about how much that really, really hurt.

"Can I come in now?" Sherlock asked in what would have been his normal tone if the airway through his nose hadn't been recently plugged up. John glared at him, still in a mild state of shock when he nodded and led the way into his flat. He didn't pay the dead man any attention as he went to the kitchen, passing his now cold cup of coffee and grabbing a sack of frozen mixed veggies from the icebox. He glanced up at Sherlock who was still gingerly holding what was likely a broken nose. He grabbed a hand towel, wrapped the frozen bag with it, walked over to him and set the cool combo down. He ignored the way his friend narrowed his eyes at him when he moved his hands away, looked at his nose for a second to determine that, yes, it was indeed broken before he grabbed it expertly between two fingers and pulled, resetting the bone into its proper location. He didn't let himself feel guilty in the least for the yelp of pain the move elicited from the taller man.

"I was going to have Molly do that." He heard him mumble as Sherlock lightly touched his own nose once more. John almost laughed at the way he flinched when he offered the cold compress before taking it and applying it to his nose.

"Molly might have just added to it before fixing it if she'll be anywhere as pissed as I am at finding out that you've been alive all this…" He saw the odd look Sherlock threw his way despite the obstruction covering a great deal of his face. "Fuck me, she knew?" The other man just nodded before angling his face toward the ceiling in the hope of stanching the flow of blood.

John pushed a stool in Sherlock's direction and then grabbed another frozen sack from the ice box for himself. He sat down on a stool of his own, grabbed his cold coffee, took a stubborn sip, winced at the acrid flavor and spoke.

"Explain and it better be the story of the century."

Sherlock spent the next hour doing just that. He told of how he survived the fall, how Molly had aided him in the task and why he'd been unable to tell anyone. He explained how Moriarty had used Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and him as game pieces. He then gave a cursory telling of the past six months, how he'd dismantled the syndicate thereby freeing them of any danger.

"So you see, I could not in good faith reveal anything to you before now," Sherlock finished as he wiped at his face with a wet cloth he'd procured only a few minutes before.

John just sat there for a minute and decided that he must still be in shock. He had no idea how to respond to even one word that had been said. He wasn't sure if he should be angry at him for not having enough trust to tell his former flat mate that he was, in fact, not dead or if he should thank him for perhaps saving his life. So instead of thinking about his own processing of the situation, he asked after another's.

"So how did Mrs. Hudson take the news?"

"She screamed, then slapped me, then hugged me and then slapped me again. Then she made me some tea, opened a new tin of biscuits and told me she'd kept the 221b tidy in my absence but that it in no way meant she was my housekeeper."

John couldn't help but chuckle.

"And Lestrade?"

"Haven't approached him yet. He should be getting fully reinstated to his old job and pay scale sometime today or tomorrow. But after Mrs. Hudson's slaps and your punch, I'm actually quite concerned that he might shoot me."

"I might have shot you had I had my gun handy."

"And hence my concerns."

"I see your point."

"So when can you move out of this dreary place and back to the 221b?"

This sent Watson for a loop. He hadn't thought much beyond the immediate return and certainly not as far as to the possibility of becoming flat mates with Sherlock once more. He wasn't even sure if he'd forgiven the presumptuous man yet.

"Mycroft will pay for the move. He's been quite generous with personal funds lately. It will be interesting to see how far I can milk this guilt of his. Who knew he could be so sentimental?"

"Sherlock, I don't even know…"

"I suggest as soon as possible. This area you've chosen to live can't be very pleasant for your newest lady friend. It's too far from her place of work at Bart's to make easy evening calls and is on completely opposite ends of town from her own flat. And seeing as how you're far more serious about this one than the last ones, it would be a much better fit."

"I don't even want to know how you know all of that."

"So you'll come back soon."

John hated how Sherlock rarely actually asked, instead turning requests into statement of fact somehow. He couldn't help but look around at his current accommodations and scowl. He really didn't like it, never had. He'd taken it for two reasons. It was cheap and he'd been able to leave 221b immediately in an attempt to escape the oppressive grief the old flat only helped to perpetuate. He sighed.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Good." Sherlock stood, pulled a card from his coat pocket and placed it on the kitchen table. "Call this number and they'll take care of everything." Then he headed for the door.

"Hey, where are you headed off to now?"

John watched as Sherlock hesitated at the door, his back stiffening slightly. "I told someone I'd come see them after I spoke with you."

He might not be a quick to see minute details around him as the detective but he also wasn't as slow minded as Sherlock liked to exclaim from time to time.

"Give Molly my love and make sure she knows I'm not upset with her in the least for not telling me."

He saw the way Sherlock tensed again, his step faltering slightly as he passed through the threshold. He just nodded and didn't turn around, disappearing down the steps and around the corner out of sight.

"This is going to take some getting used to again," John muttered as he locked the door and looked at the card he'd grabbed off the counter. "And it looks like I'm moving again." He looked around and scratched the back of his neck. "Shit."

XxXxX

Molly absently rubbed the towel against her damp hair as she searched out something mind numbing on the telly. She slumped onto the couch in her puffy white robe, the one that made her feel like she was a guest at some high end spa and refocused her efforts on her hair once a suitable channel was found. The talk show host chatted on with his guests as she decided just to wrap the towel around her head as she grabbed the lotion off of the coffee table to begin her normal after shower routine. She'd just finished with one leg when a knock came at her door. She took a quick peek at the clock and wondered who would be calling so late. Halfway to the door she froze. Could it be?

She looked down at herself and sighed. Of course it was, only he showed up when she was completely indecent and if that would have been an issue before the Moriarty debacle, it was doubly so after it for obvious reasons. She tore the towel off her head, and threw it down the hall before running her fingers through her damp hair. Just before she took hold of the door, she took a deep breath in order to compose herself and then…

XxXxX

It had taken Sherlock a few moments of pacing outside her door before he finally found the wherewithal to knock. It wasn't as though he hadn't thought of this encounter several times a day for the past two months but when finally faced with the reality of being here, he'd faltered. He still didn't fully comprehend his… desire to see her repeatedly. He still wasn't sure what had set it off in the first place. Had it been her speech in the lab before his fall? Had it been her complete willingness to aid him despite the sorts of hardships she would endure as a result? Had it been the potent mix of drugs and spontaneous sex? One of those events, he leaned towards the latter, spurred this newly discovered part of himself. Even The Woman had not made him feel this way. She'd been intriguing, stimulating in new and wonderful ways but in the end that was all she was while with Molly… It was something he didn't quite have words for yet.

He didn't know if it was what people called lust or caring but he'd be lying if he didn't admit to himself that it disconcerted him. It felt too much like what he'd once found with a syringe. He got that same desperateness to him when near her as he would just before he pumped himself full of mind altering chemicals. After the first time with her, he'd thought it had just been the sex and the natural highs a body experienced after copulating with another human. So after a month of not being able to remove the scenario from his mind, he'd found a willing woman and tested the theory. It hadn't been the same, not by a long shot.

He hadn't exactly planned to indulge with her a second time but once he was with her, he'd found he had no willpower to oppose his baser desires. He would have done so a third time had the previously meek pathologist not bluntly refused him.

That had not been a pleasant experience. He'd never been one to truly care about the opinions of other and as such, he wasn't one that could easily develop hurt feelings. That night had been an acute exception to that rule. It was bad enough that she rejected him but the way she responded to his attempts at persuasion had been surprising to say the least. He'd spent that lonely night and each one since then pondering what he needed to say, how he needed to act and what he needed to do in order to convince her to allow him back into her good graces in order to get him back into her.

He knew it was crass of him to even think that way. He'd done things he wasn't quite proud of back in his drug using days and he saw the parallel to that. Maybe he shouldn't try to indulge with Molly. Maybe he should take these similarities as warnings. Maybe he should but he wasn't going to. Molly wasn't some illicit substance that would take over his life with the distinct possibility of death attached. She was his pathologist. She was, or at least had been, quite taken with him. She bounced back time and again from his unintentional and intentional verbal lashings that were simply a part of the hazard of spending any real amount of time around him. Not many people were capable of dealing with that like she did. He could think of only four other people that fit that description. Most grew to hate him in very little time but not Molly, not his pathologist

If it was just because of some attraction for him that she harbored, as he always imagined was the case, then he would take advantage of that quality. Wasn't that the point? Two people who had a mutual interest in one another would take advantage of said mutual interest to mutual gain? Did it matter if the quality of the interest differed? He didn't think so. So he knocked on her door…


	7. Chapter 7

**Better?**

"Oh no Sherlock, not again." He actually looked confused and a bit put out after she uttered those first words to him upon opening her door. Molly managed to get another sentence out before he had a chance at a scathing remark. "I just meant you're hurt again. So your nose… You really let him hit you?" She stepped off to the side and let him in before closing the door.

"I think it's rather obvious."

Old Molly would have let that slide completely, maybe sputtered out an, 'Of course, silly me'. New Molly just gritted her teeth and reminded herself that this was Sherlock. When she turned around, he was staring at her intently, like she was some puzzle he quickly had to sort out before they could continue.

"I should not have said that. At least not like that." Molly's eyes widened. Was that a Sherlock style apology? "I'm still amazed that stating facts can be construed as rude." Okay, so it was a Sherlock style half apology, half insult. The bit of irritation he'd waylaid with the first bit came back after the second, essentially cancelling themselves out. Molly took a calming breath before she spoke.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" He again looked confused, perhaps a bit agitated as well.

"You said that I could after I spoke with John. I have spoken with John. I am here."

"I remember that bit but it doesn't answer my question?" He spun away from her then, examining her flat and all the contents therein. She didn't even want to contemplate what he was deducing from everything he was taking in. Now she wished she'd put on a smart documentary instead of the trash that was currently playing in the background on her telly.

He didn't turn around before he spoke and for once, Molly was glad his visual scrutiny wasn't on her. "You find me attractive, do you not?"

"W-what?" She squeaked out. Suddenly, she felt like old Molly again. He turned then and she just wanted to sink into the wall.

"Attractive. Do you find me physically attractive? Do you imagine yourself in intimate scenarios with me? Beyond what we've already done, would you find the idea of a physical relationship something that might interest you?"

"I-I don't know."

He strode back towards her then and gripped her wrist while staring intently into her eyes.

"Eyes dilated, pulse elevated, respiration rate increasing, adrenaline has dilated the capillaries of your cheeks, neck and…" his eyes traveled lower to where her robe had parted slightly on her chest.

"Stop that," she commanded as she wrenched her wrist from his grasp in order to both remove herself from his currently oppressive touch and so that she could tighten her robe around her. This was a bit too much. She pushed past him so she didn't feel so trapped within her own flat between him and her door. She got about halfway through the room when she whirled around to find Sherlock had turned and was watching her in what she could only describe as a calculating manner. "Why would you want to know all of that?"

"Because I wish to."

"Wish to what?"

"Be in a physical relationship with you."

She just stared at him with her mouth agape, completely stunned of any words. Yes, they'd had sex. Yes, he'd wanted to have sex that last time he'd been here but for some reason, his coming out and saying, rather bluntly, that he wished to have some ongoing… thing, nearly knocked her flat. When she didn't respond right away, he continued, slowly advancing on her as he did.

"I believe I'm correct in assuming that you are indeed attracted to me. I find that I am to you as well. I also believe that you've imagined us in intimate scenarios before. I have found my imagination to be rather creative in that area as well." Still, no coherent thoughts formed in her mind, leaving her a continued mute. "You expressed a deficiency in my form as per our previous encounters. I would like to correct that, improve upon that." She swallowed and he took two more steps, slowly closing the gap between them. She felt exactly like the proverbial deer in headlights as Sherlock continued to bear down on her. "I would like to find out what gives you physical pleasure." Another step. "I would like that very much. So I am once again asking you for your assistance, Molly Hooper."

He stood directly in front of her and his eyes were taking in everything, she could feel it. They darted to every part of her physical form, obviously seeking the non-verbal answer that her continued silence forced him to. Whatever it was he deduced led him to slowly reach up to cup her cheek and Molly found she just couldn't help herself when she closed her eyes and turned into his touch. So maybe she was still very much infatuated with him and just maybe that little speech he'd just given her had made her insides twist and twitch.

She didn't open her eyes again until his hand slid back into her hair and urged her head back. She saw him looking down at her, his gaze had that same calculating coolness to it, not the raw lust she'd seen the times before. This was the Sherlock of the lab, the one who asked for Petri dishes and demanded the use of her microscopes. This was not the spontaneous man that had been in her home before. Her mental comparison stopped the moment his lips touched hers, chastely at first, just a simple press of lips but the moment he stepped in to press his body flush with hers, he deepened it. She couldn't help but pull away when his tongue slipped into her mouth. It had the same clumsy feel to it that she'd felt with her first kisses.

"Not so much tongue," she said immediately. He just nodded and pulled her back, barely tapping against her own this time. She found herself smiling and the expression must have registered to him because it was his turn to pull back slightly.

"Better?"

"Much."

"Good." And he was back again. This went on for several, long, amazing minutes but the moment he started to part her robe, Molly finally remembered herself and remembered that she couldn't just let him waltz in here, say a few well chosen words and get her on her back again.

"Sherlock, wait." And she stepped away, re-securing her robe about her. This earned her an annoyed groan from the detective.

"What is the problem, Molly?" She'd be lying if she didn't find the rough quality of his already deep timbered voice devastatingly erotic but she squeezed her fists together as she tried to keep her wits about her.

"It can't be like the last times."

"I said I can improve my form."

"That's not what I meant." She didn't think she could feel anymore flushed but the candid way he kept speaking about what was going on between them kept making her feel hotter and hotter with each word he spoke. "I mean you can't just leave."

"I left before because staying too long could have placed you in danger."

"Okay, that's fine but you can't do that again."

"So you would wish me to stay the night?"

"That's usually how it works." He seemed to ponder this for a moment.

"Done." Then he advanced upon her again but she just danced away. "Molly." The way he said her name sounded like a warning. This was not a man who was used to not getting what he wanted and she didn't know if she should be flattered that she was 'what he wanted' or if she should feel intimidated by it.

"I just…" but she sputtered out. What did she feel the need to say? Maybe it was his cold approach that had her on edge, that made her feel more like one of his experiments than it made her feel like a desirable woman. What did she want from him? A declaration of love? Even she wasn't that much of a romantic to think that would ever happen. Knowing that he cared for her, even just a little might be nice but she wasn't going to hold her breath for anything even that grand. So, what? "This isn't just a one off or anything like that?"

He smiled then but it didn't look like relief but rather the kind of smile you see when someone has won a game of some sort. "No, not a one off." He took a tentative step towards her and she didn't retreat again. So she was going to let this happen again. Why did she feel like she was missing something, something that could potentially make her feel very foolish in the future?

He tilted her head up with both hands this time and began to kiss her again. God, he was a fast learner. She moaned when he released her lips to instead attack her neck.

"Good?"

"God yes." She was so focused on what his questing mouth was doing to her neck and now earlobe, that she didn't even notice when he finally succeeded in parting the robe she'd been so diligent in keeping closed since he arrived. It wasn't until it was slipping off her shoulders that reality slapped her in the face once more. This was the most exposed she'd ever been. She caught the sleeves in her hands just before the entire thing hit the floor. When she felt him pull back enough to look at her while simultaneously trying to tug it off her, she practically shouted, "Dinner might be nice."

"Now?" He sounded breathless and she squeaked again when he used his considerably greater strength to yank her garment free from her clutches.

"Well, n-not right now but maybe next time."

"Hn," he replied entirely non-committaly. She didn't have time to think it over when his large hands suddenly covered her breasts.

"I'm always wrong about something."

"What?" she practically moaned out.

"They are definitely not too small."

"Oh. Oh! Gently." She said and immediately his kneading lessened in strength. "But that's very nice." She complimented when he lightly took her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and just barely pinched them.

"Curious." No chance to question that odd word because before she had a chance, he'd leaned down and taken one taunt nipple into his mouth and applied suction as he flicked his tongue against it. She just moaned loudly. He released her with a pop.

"That was good as well?" She nodded, not trusting her voice to cooperate with her at the moment and the moaning continued when his other hand slipped between her legs and tentatively prodded between her lips. Suddenly he pulled away. "I need to see what I'm doing," he stated plainly enough but left her feeling off balance. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along behind him. He might be learning what she liked but he didn't seem to think dragging her around her flat was a problem at all. If she hadn't been in some lust filled daze, she might have said so. Instead, she just let herself be led into her bedroom. He stopped next to her bed and let go of her hand. She stood there dumbly for a moment while he started on the task of unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped when he looked up to find her staring blankly at him.

"Well, lie down." When she didn't move right away or respond, he sighed and moved to kiss her again. Was he using those to distract her? She let him take her lips and her mouth again but he moment she felt him pushing her back, she sidestepped him. Did he just growl? It was just a groan of irritation but it almost sounded like a growl, comically so. He turned to face her again, about to say something as well, when she reached out and started unbuttoning his shirt, picking up where he'd left off. She didn't look up, too focused on her task, too worried that he'd stop her so she missed how his look of irritation melted from his features and was replaced by first surprise and then the look she'd seen the few times before. He stood perfectly still for her. That look was still there when she finished with the last button and let her fingertip travel up his stomach to his chest before running them to his shoulders, pushing the material off as she went.

That's when she looked up at him and saw how dark his eyes had become and when she noticed this was affecting him as well. Feeling particularly emboldened by his sudden change away from a purely clinical feeing partner, she let her fingers retrace their path back down to his pants. She maintained eyecontact as she easily manipulated the belt buckle open along with the button of his fly and then the zipper. Feeling like some fantasy temptress and very unlike herself, she oh so slowly lowered the zip before hooking her fingers into the waist of both the slacks and the boxers he wore beneath. It was his hissed intake of air that finally chased her eyes away from his. She saw his pants pool at his feet and saw that he was definitely interested in continuing.

"Lie down, Molly" When she didn't move right away, he followed it up with an almost desperate sounding, "Please." It seemed that clinical; 'Molly, I need your lab for the next five hours' Sherlock was no longer in the room. She almost felt guilty for how much better that made her feel, almost. She finally did as he asked and the moment she did, she wished the lights were turned off. She didn't have much time to worry about overexposure because he crawled over her as soon as he'd wrestled his shoes and socks off his feet.

He looked down between them and almost whispered his next words. "I wanted to," he hastily spread her legs with one of his own and one of his hands, "experiment more but I don't think I can right now." The confession made her smile. She reached up and touched his cheek, having the immediate effect of bringing his line of sight back to hers.

"Next time maybe." That's when something extraordinary happened; he smiled at her. Never once in all the times she'd known him had he genuinely smiled at her. It made him look infinitely younger, almost boyish. She snaked her other hand between their bodies, took hold of him (his gasp was immensely endearing) and guided him to her. He tried to push inside her immediately but Molly held him off for a moment, keeping a hold of him and running the tip of him up and down her slick heat a few times, partly to tease but mostly to coat him as much as possible to ease his entry.

"Go slowly at first," she said once she'd lined him up and released him. He just gave a quick jerk of his head to show he understood. Then, inch-by-inch, he pressed inside. His whole body seemed to be shaking with the effort and Molly marveled at how he seemed to be actually trying to hold back because of what she'd said. Her hand stayed between them though. She'd be damned if she was going to have sex with Sherlock a third time and not get her milk and cookies too. As he started to move within her, she took care of attending the little bundle just above the space he was filling so nicely.

She saw him look down between them, lifting his chest up a little bit for a better view. "Bloody brilliant," he said when he saw what she was doing. That's when he sped up. The two of them panted and moaned as they moved together. Molly continuously ran her free hand through his hair, down his neck and onto his back where she enjoyed feeling the play of his muscles clench and relax over and over again before backtracking once more. For his part, Sherlock absently massaged her hip with one hand, held himself up with the other and kept his head either tucked into her shoulder or stared down at the joining of their bodies.

It only took a few minutes before Molly was on the verge. The combination of his penetration and her manipulation did the trick nicely. "I'm so close," she moaned into his ear.

"Close. To. What?" Each word was accentuated by a thrust of his hips. She almost laughed at the question but didn't really have the concentration to devote to it at that moment. She only managed a couple words.

"Coming." When she wasn't sure if he knew what she meant, she went for broke. "Orgasm." His very long, low groan told her that he finally understood and it was that groan that sent her over the edge. Her whole body seized. Her head lifted from the pillow, her toes curled, she might have scratched his back and her whole world pulsed in white-hot pleasure. She distantly thought that she might have heard her name chanted a few times during her bit of bliss but couldn't be sure.

When her vision and consciousness came fully back to reality, she found Sherlock collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily, almost gasping but otherwise unmoving. She enjoyed the weight of him for a little while, too absorbed in the afterglow to find it uncomfortable in the least. He was the first to move, lifting himself back onto his elbows. His brow was drawn together as he looked down at her. She reached up and traced his cheekbones. He looked a bit uncomfortable so she pulled her hand away and decided to give him an out.

"I need to use the loo." He looked relieved to have a reason to move away from her. He nodded once and gingerly pulled his softening length from her before rolling off of her and onto his back. She cupped herself to hopefully avoid having to send her comforter to the cleaners, they really should have pulled it back but it hadn't been high on her list of priorities this evening. She trotted to the bathroom, took care of herself and then headed back to the bedroom, grabbing her bathrobe on the way. When she got back, he was still there. She couldn't help but be a bit surprised. He'd put his boxers back on, pulled down the covers and was partially lying under them. She slipped in beside him and they spent the next few minutes in complete and total, very awkward silence.

"Are you tired?" Molly finally asked.

"Not particularly."

"Crap telly?"

"God yes." He had his trousers and shirt back on and was out the bedroom door before Molly had a chance to put her robe back on.

"Well, at least he didn't leave." She sighed before heading to the kitchen for a glass of wine she desperately needed. He declined a glass for himself and by the time she sat next to him on the couch, he was already yelling at the people on the screen. They watched it in companionable silence until Sherlock abruptly turned to her.

"Better?" His face denoted nothing but strict seriousness. Molly finished her last sip before she answered.

"Much." It was almost comical to see the degree to which is entire body relaxed.

"Good." He looked back to the telly for a moment before turning to her again. "The times before you didn't…"

She shook her head.

"Right." He looked at his hands, seemingly finding his nails quite interesting. "If you hadn't touched yourself, you wouldn't have?"

She shrugged but then said, "Probably not." He pursed his lips for a moment before unexpectedly sliding to his knees onto the floor and settling himself in front of her.

"Spread your legs and show me."

Yet again, Molly wanted to smack herself for being surprised by anything his did. She gulped and wondered just what the hell she'd gotten herself into with this odd man. What she needed, however, was another glass of wine.

AN: Yup, I ended it there. Bwahahaha. This was a fun but challenging chapter to write. It's tough to write awkwardness so the last 10th of this chapter took almost as long as the first 9/10ths. Lot's of rewriting and scene changing. Also, I really wanted to write another smutastic chapter and getting Molly to agree without her being TO wishy washy took some figuring. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Anatomydoc: Yes, yes he is. He'll try to rationalize everything. Anything irrational is going to be difficult for him to swallow, lol. I'm glad you've enjoyed it thus far!

MorbidbyDefault: That was my favorite bit when I wrote it. I could just picture it happening so clearly. Glad you liked it too! I kinda sorta went that direction but with a bit more buildup, lol. Thanks.

Mizjoely: I finally got back to this story. I've been busy with some non fanfic writing but needed a break to cleanse the palette so to speak. I'm so pleased that you'd all the reunion bits. I enjoyed doing John's because I've never read one from his POV before (I'm pretty much strictly in the Sherlolly fics so that might be why). I hope the aftermath of the door opening met with expectations.


	8. Chapter 8

**Why You're Here**

"Spread your legs and show me."

Stunned silence. Obviously clinical Sherlock was putting in an encore performance for the evening and once again, he was putting her sexual psyche through its paces. The worst part of it: he didn't seem to understand just how uncouth his behavior was and, if he did, he didn't give a damn.

"If I'm to continue to improve, I can only do so if I'm able to gather as much practical information as possible. I can't know what feels pleasant to you if you don't tell me," he slid his hands beneath the hem of her robe and planted them on her knees, "and show me." If his blunt words weren't enough, the outward pressure he began to exert on her legs completely solidified the insanity she was being subjected to. The craziest bit? She couldn't think of one logical reason why she should tell him no despite her almost hysterical desire to do so. Maybe that was the problem, he was being too logical, too methodical. But how do you tell someone like Sherlock, someone who thrives on the rational parts of life that, no, you shouldn't go about it like this?

So the crux of the situation, did she tell him no and try to change him or did she suck it up and throw her lot in with the man she'd chosen, logical insanity and all? Being who she was and knowing who he was, she chose the latter.

In a minute.

She jumped up off the couch and practically ran into the kitchen, taking her empty wine glass with her. She didn't dare look back at him, not yet. She could already see in her mind's eye the scrunched brow and pursed lips as he tried to figure out her actions. She decided to let them speak for themselves as she poured a very healthy serving, drank half of it right there before refilling and, with as much courage as she could muster, headed back.

He was standing by the time she got back, and because she couldn't form the words, she pressed down on his shoulder without looking directly at him as she re-sat herself back on her former spot. She took another big sip of wine, closed her eyes and did as he'd bid many minutes before. She spread her legs.

Molly didn't reopen her eyes until she felt his hands parting her robe and baring her to his inspection. When she did, he was completely fixated on the apex of her thighs.

"More." That one word caused both a rush of heat straight to where he was already staring and forced her to take another not-so-tiny sip of wine. The liquid courage was starting to do its work so she did as he commanded. She couldn't help the moan she released when he ran his hands up her thighs.

"Interesting." She would have told him he could shove his 'interestings' and 'curiouses' if she'd been able to form words. Instead, another sip took the place of her undeliverable quip.

Her eyes locked onto her ceiling light, completely unwilling to watch his progress. This might have been a bad idea however, since she acutely felt every single one of his touches.

"You cleaned yourself after our coupling?"

Our coupling? Who said it like that? Oh yeah, Sherlock. "Yes." She whispered to the ceiling.

"So this has happened since then?" She was about to ask just what the hell he was talking about when she felt his fingers run between her lower lips, through her obviously very slick lower lips. She couldn't believe she was turned on by this… examination.

"Yes."

She felt him spread her even more intimately with one hand while he continued with his exploration with the second. When he started to manipulate her clitoris, she jumped. He was rubbing it up and down with just a little too much gusto.

"Not so hard." Her brow furrowed when he changed pressure but the manipulation was still not quite right. "Try circles." He did but something was still off.

"Not better?"

"Huh uh."

"Then show me." That finally brought her line of site away from the ceiling. He didn't wait for her to do as he asked this time. Instead, he grabbed the hand that wasn't occupied with wine and drew it between her legs. "Show me what you did for yourself while I was inside of you." His tone had changed once more and she drew in a shaky inhale. His intense stare remained focused on her increasingly slick nethers until she failed to move right away. That's when they flicked up to meet hers. It passed through her mind that she should inform him of just how dilated his pupils were at that moment but instead; she broke eye contact to look at her fingers. So she took the plunge and started to manipulate herself in a way that felt quite nice. Absently she noticed that he didn't immediately look back down, watching her face for a time, but when he did, she could have sworn that his intensity was burning her from the inside out.

She slid two of her fingers down and slightly inside to gather more wetness before taking the task up once more. At one point, her eyes closed as she concentrated on the feeling of not only touching herself but also touching herself while he watched. As soon as she started to touch her clit again he slid two of his fingers right into where she'd just abandoned.

"Good?"

She just bit her bottom lip and nodded, moaning a moment later when he pressed upwards. He repeated the move and she repeated the sound. Though his fingers continued what they'd been doing she heard him shift in front of her. That's when he took her wine glass and set it on the table beside them and completely parted the robe. At this point, she didn't care that she was practically naked while he was practically fully dressed, except that she loved it when he lightly tweaked one of her nipples while latching onto the other with his mouth. The combination of sensations was quickly driving her towards release.

"I'm going to come," she breathed out.

"By all means," he mumbled against her breast and she did a few seconds later. It wasn't as intense as when they'd been in the bedroom but it was still wonderful. He'd pulled back the moment it started and she knew he was watching her, studying her as she fell apart. His fingers stopped moving and she heard him speak quietly to himself. "I should be able to duplicate that in the future."

Molly fell back against the cushions panting, her hand still between her legs but unmoving. "That was wonderful."

"So my fingers inside were useful?"

She opened her eyes to look down at him. "Useful? That was bloody brilliant, Sherlock."

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards as he pulled away and set to work removing his trousers once more. He stood in order to fully rid himself of them and Molly found herself in a quandary. There was no way she was ready for another go, too sensitive but the moment he exposed himself to her, it was obvious that he _was_ ready. However, she didn't want to leave him in that state. It seemed patently unfair considering she'd gotten off twice. It didn't take more than a second for her to come up with a solution, one she rather liked. She slipped to her knees just as he was about to cover her body with his own.

"Molly?"

"Not another word, Sherlock." She silently thanked whoever invented wine for the courage that allowed her to utter those words and for what she was about to do next. She placed one of her hands on his thigh while the other wasted no time in grasping the base of his renewed vigor. Slowly at first, she stroked him from base to tip, letting her thumb brush over the top before repeating the move. When no protests came from the man above her, she let her other hand slide inward to lightly fondle his sac. The groan he let out only bolstered her further so she rose up higher on her knees and instead of her thumb caressing the head, she let her tongue take up the action.

"Molly."

The way he moaned her name made the next move inevitable. She slipped him inside her mouth and treated him like some delicious treat. She licked, she sucked, she nibbled and she hummed in complete satisfaction as Sherlock continued to moan and hiss above her. When she felt his hand fist in her hair, she took up the pace and left all teasing behind. She had but one goal now and the idea of having this sort of control over him while he had none was probably the most arousing thing she'd ever done in the entirety of her life. That had to be the reason she'd always enjoyed this act. Some saw it as demeaning but she saw it as incredibly empowering. She'd always been so meek in everything she did but not this. In this, something she knew she excelled at, she was the antithesis of meek and she loved every second of it.

Apparently, so did Sherlock. Despite having already come only thirty minutes before, he started to buck his hips slightly and gasp, his other hand joining the first in her hair. He didn't give her any verbal forewarning but she knew before it happened and was ready. Luckily she had the forethought to place her hands on his thighs or he might have unconsciously thrust too hard, too far and made her gag. She held him firmly and didn't let it happen but she did let him spurt into her mouth while he chanted her name above her.

She swallowed the slightly bitter substance without much thought and for the first time looked up. He was staring down at her with a look that she could only describe as wonder. Letting go of her hair, he almost stumbled back before catching himself. He turned and practically collapsed onto the couch.

"And you did that because?" he questioned her while still breathing rather hard.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and shrugged. "I wanted to." She stood and tugged her robe from beneath him. "And I wouldn't have been ready for sex quite yet." She saw the tilt of his head as he looked at her so she clarified "I get sensitive, too sensitive after…" where had all her courage gone, "I come," she said quietly as she walked to the kitchen once more. She needed a glass of water to rinse her mouth of the odd aftertaste she always had after performing that particular sex act.

"Ah." She heard behind her. Nothing was said while she grabbed her water though she did hear the channel changing on the telly. "I understand better why John constantly pursues women." She couldn't help but laugh.

"I doubt that's the only reason." She'd gathered in the time she'd spent with both men that while John was very much a ladies man, he did not seem to be purely interested in the physical aspects of a relationship.

"And what else would there be?" Her hand tightened on her glass when he asked that.

"Well, companionship, of course."

"Ah." He didn't sound convinced in the least. She shouldn't, not right now, but she couldn't help the next words that issued from her lips.

"Is that the only reason you're here?" From the change in his expression, it was easy to see that he quickly regretted what he'd said before but his lack of immediate answer only confirmed her fears. "It is, isn't it? Oh god, I'm such a little fool."

"I told you that I did not want this to be a 'one off'," he said carefully while standing up pulling his pants back on. Good, she didn't think she could have a conversation like this with a naked Sherlock.

"Oh." She set her glass down. "Not a one off but it's still just about sex?" Again, he didn't deny the claim. "I think I might have been okay with that at one point," she said to her hands as they twisted in front of her. "But I don't think I can be now. I don't know what I want from you, Sherlock but I do know that I don't just want to be your occasional screw. I want to at least be more than that and if you can't do that then," she looked up to see him just standing and staring at her with a rather lost look, "you don't need to stay the night after all."

"Molly…"

"Is it more than just sex?"

"…"

"That's what I thought." Her breath caught in the back of her throat but she quickly regained control. "You should get your things and go."

"Do not push me out again."

"Is it more?"

"I don't know!" he shouted suddenly, making her jump at the intensity of it. He opened his mouth to speak again but then shut it just as quickly. His eyes stayed on hers for a moment before they started to bounce around the room, his hand running through his hair. Maybe it was unfair of her to want this. He wasn't the average bloke that she'd started up relationships with in the past. He wasn't average in the least. Maybe asking him for what she'd asked of those normal men wasn't right. But what was the alternative? Let him use her? Let him pop in when he felt the need, have a shag and nothing more?

"I want to stay." That broke her out of her internal debate. He was looking at her again. "I don't know what I want but I do know that I want to stay. Let me stay." It was her turn to open her mouth to speak but have nothing come out. She was just about to say no in the hopes that she was doing the right thing for herself when he beat her to it. "I've never wanted to stay anywhere but my own home yet I want to stay here, with you. That should count for something. Please, Molly." He said it with such genuine feeling earnestness that she caved.

"Alright, Sherlock. Telly or bed?" He promptly sat down. She sighed. "Telly it is then." Was this a mistake? She really hoped it wasn't.

AN: Well that was pretty much just porn with a teeny, tiny bit of relationship plot thrown in at the end. I hope no one minded because it was a hoot to write. There's something so fun about writing a 'how to' sex scene, especially with these characters.

Anatomydoc: Thank you! I love writing the little switches from one sort of Sherlock to another. I think it's fun to think of someone who's always in control, losing said control. I hope you didn't think I'd ended the fic even though my wording accidently sounded that way. I don't fully know where this is going but I do know it's not done yet, lol.  
Calicar: It's a lot more fun to write than I expected. Molly wants a relationship and Sherlock doesn't know what he wants since this is virgin territory for him. He's spent his adult life abhorring anything that hints towards this sort of sentiment so he's going to balk from time to time, especially at the start but hopefully he can handle it. If smut scenes are your thing, you came to right place because I love to write them.  
MizJoely: You're welcome. Demand away!  
whatcatydidnext: (7) Hrm… glitch in the matrix? :) I'm glad you're enjoying it! (4) It fun to write him not fully in control and making him a virgin was the best way to do that. Plus, I find the idea oddly sexy for that particular character.  
Poodle warriors: (6) Yes, that's an understatement. (7) I get in those moods from time to time. He's not quite sure what he wants but he does know Molly and her continued presence are a part of it. In his mind, keeping her satisfied will help him to keep her but in what capacity? Who knows at this point. :)  
Kathmak: I stopped there but only for that chapter, not the story. I'm not ready to end this thing quite yet. As for the discomfort right after, he knows he likes the sex and has come to grip with that fact but anything beyond that is still uncharted territory that he doesn't fully understand. Anything Sherlock doesn't understand is going to be difficult for him so he doesn't know what to do with himself once the sex is over. That make sense? And there is ALWAYS room for emotional growth when I'm doing the writing. It's my favorite bit of fanfiction, changing the canon characters in a believable way into something I want them to be. That's the challenge anyway.


End file.
